


Smile

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Xenosaga
Genre: Dreams, Horror, M/M, Nightmares, One Night Stands, Original Character(s), That don't really serve as much more than a plot catalyst don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams always had a terrible way of butting in at the worst possible times. Just when you were certain that you’d forgotten all the details of whatever horror you faced the night prior, you would see some tiny little object, or hear a single word, and it would all crash back onto you, piece-by-piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Original characters are a touchy subject. I know a lot of people don't like them... and this story does contain one. Are they my 'precious bbby?" Nooooo. They're really more a plot catalyst than anything. They're just there to make things happen, and to highlight what I need to highlight. If that makes sense?
> 
> Hell, hopefully this story makes sense. I feel like its a bit like a string of stories with the same theme, taking place over the same day. Hmm.
> 
> If you want some mood-music for this, put on "Smile (Pictures or it Didn't Happen)" by Amanda Palmer. Then, think about the fic, the end of Episode III, and Gaignun's fate. Proceed to drop on the ground and cry. 
> 
> Or don't. Don't make yourself too upset! (I'll shut up now and get on with the story.)

Gaignun always loved the gardens at the Foundation.

He would never have admitted it to anyone, but the social demands of his position made him grossly uncomfortable from time to time. It wasn’t that he disliked the role— no—more the fact that beneath the suave confidence he had grown into, there still lay a trace of the timid child he had once been. For every meeting and 24-hours of nonstop work… he needed a walk.

Sometimes, Rubedo would accompany him. All too often, his elder brother would blabber loudly and bound about, scaring away the birds and other fauna that had gathered around the flowers, but when—if— he quieted down, it was admittedly nice to have his company.

“You screamed again last night.”

Well, most of the time.

“…What of it?” Gaignun didn’t look at him as he spoke, instead keeping his gaze pointed up at the branch-dappled false sky.

“Well…” Jr. nudged him gently with an elbow, and breezed past him. “I hear you _a lot_. And not in a good way, if you catch my drift.”

Gaignun resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the poor timing of the crude remark. “We all have nightmares, Jr. It isn’t anything to be concerned about.”

“Mmhhmm.”

That didn’t sound convinced at all. “What. What?”

“It’s nothing.” If Jr. was attempting to make a point, it was beyond even Gaignun—he had withdrawn far into the reaches of his mind into a place where even his telepathy could not reach. “Just… I don’t know. You know yourself better than I do, so don’t ignore warning signs if you see them, m’kay?”

Gaignun wasn’t listening. ‘Don’t you get nightmares?’ He wanted to ask, but his mouth didn’t cooperate with his brain. For starters, it was poorly worded— of course Jr. got nightmares. Everyone did, their kind most of all. His heart clenched and burned with pent-up emotion—every nerve, bone, and sinew of his body screamed at him to unlock his doors and let his brother in, but he somehow could never find the strength to actually do it. So he remained in privacy—painful, awful privacy.

“Don’t be silly. I told you, it’s nothing.”

\---       

There was a house.

It was not quite like anything he’s ever lived in before—it wasn’t like the lab where he was born and it wasn’t the grand mansion he had found himself living in now.

It was normal.

And in this normal house, he lived alone—no—with his siblings. Rubedo and Albedo lived in the attic; he and he lived in the basement. Citrine was the lucky one—she lived in the room near their father’s.

God, did he want to impress his father. In fact, that was all he could think about—and it was hard not to, given how that man seemed to always be nearby, always watching. Every corner he turned around, every door he opened, they all led to another bright room, with another shadowy corner where his father always lurked.

Like a child, he ran from room to room, crawling under tables and pressing his face to the cool glass windows in search of something or someone. (How old was he anyway? Where were his siblings? They were here, but where, where-oh-where…)

“They’ve gone.” A hand was now gripping his wrist, and from the corner of his eye, a lock of blonde hair shone. “It seems you’re the last one here. What a shame.”

“No—I—“The scene shifted in an imperceptible blur, and he could no longer tell where the new room began and the old one ended. He took it in stride, the oddness of the change unseen to him, and turned on the basis of an inexplicable instinct that told him to do so.

His heart took off like a hummingbird when he saw the object now resting in his hand. In the dark shadows of this new room, he could not make out its exact identity, but the color and wetness gave enough away to know that it was sticky and soaked red.

He flinched—“You little…fucker--!” Rubedo spat at him from the space beneath his feet. “…I knew it!” His voice warbled with bubbles of bloody saliva that made Nigredo sick to his stomach.  In a burst of shock and panic, he did the only thing he could think of—he jammed the weapon down into his brother’s throat, for what he assumed was not the first time. A soundless scream erupted from his mouth as the blade pierced it, His hands flew to Nigredo’s face, clawing and scratching and begging him to stop before falling lifeless to the ground. Nigredo screamed—the body underneath him split in two like a dividing cell, one red and one white, but both as dead as its counterpart. Not one, but two brothers, dead by his hand in a single stroke. The twins had fallen to his knife—two birds with one stone.

“Well done.” His father had reappeared now, to embrace him like a serpent from behind. Nigredo sniveled hideously, and did not respond. Citrine, standing expectantly in front of both him and the mirrored bodies, began to applaud.

“No—“ he sobbed, the realization hitting him at last. “No…” But the words died on his lips just like the brothers he had killed. Where was that knife now—? It was gone, and it forced him to settle for squirming and writhing in his father’s arms until a dull ‘hold him still’ echoed from behind his ear.

It occurred to him then that his body was no longer that of a child—or perhaps it always had been that way and he just hadn’t noticed until someone else was there to point it out.

Citrine had him pinned to the wall before he could do as much as whimper. Her nails dug into his palms like little knives as Yuriev’s lips descended on his own, shoving his tongue forcefully inside until completely helpless, he simply submit to it, and fell tumbling in and thorugh the walls.

He shot out of bed like a dart from a hand.

Stumbling like a drunk, Gaignun made for the vanity, using his hands to guide him through the darkness of his bedroom until he could slam one onto the wall-switch.

There. Light flooded the room, making him shudder like it was exorcising of his body of half-imagined demons. From there, he fell into the long practiced routine of cold water, and pacing until the fright was gone in its entirety. He waited until the sink was filled to the brim, and with a deep breath, sunk his head into the basin.

When his lungs could take no more, he lifted his head from heavy water, and blindly grasped for a towel with shaking hands.

 _It’s water. Not blood._ He reminded himself. _Just water, just water, just… water…_

He could always call Jr.

But of course, he did not.

\---

Early morning tea would always be the great cure-all. Even if it took several cups of the stuff, even if his hands shook as he poured the first mug, it never would fail to do the trick in the end.

The cup in his hand must have been at least the seventh mug he had drunk since 4:00 AM. Gaignun had stopped paying attention hours ago, and by 6:30, it could’ve been his twentieth mug, for all he knew or cared. As coffee was for some, tea was his caffeine injection to drag him through the morning, and with a little luck, the rest of the day.

Gaignun was anything but a lucky man, but in just this one case, his luck hadn’t run out yet. Some days though, he feared that good fortune was dangerously close to reaching its end.

The eldest-yet-youngest of the Kukais usually made a habit of pointing this out. ‘And what time were _you_ up at?’ and ‘Want me to get a pillow?’ and a thousand other cracks at sleep-deprivation were the norm for him. Apparently, this time, even Jr. wouldn’t go that far.

“Hey,” He had slipped up to his desk in a brief stretch of downtime before Gaignun had to speak with Helmer about some project Mary at dreamt up. He couldn’t even remember what that was anymore. Alas, he’d figure it out…

“Uh, yes?” Gaignun looked up from his work, careful not to make direct eye-contact with his brother, for fear of revealing his caffeine-stained, red-streaked eyes.

“You okay?” Jr. crouched in a little closer across the table to ask a little more quietly: “You look like hell.”

“Oh, I’m fine…” Gaignun waved his hand dismissively, starting to feel as though the genuine concern from Jr. was more an annoyance than anything else. “About 2:00 in the morning I realized I had forgotten to organize the speaker for the fundraiser, and…” Catching Jr’s heavily doubtful eye, he sighed.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”  
“No.”

“...Gaignun, for god’s sake!” Jr. backed away from the desk in the sort of fit that an actual child might throw. “You have to do something about it! It’s the third time this week, and something serious _has_ to be bothering you if it keeps happening all rapid-fire like this!”

“It’s nothing, I told you! Now, keep your voice down,” His brow furrowed. “You’ll attract attention, and only make it worse if you keep putting up a racket like such a small child.”  
“Oh—” Jr. sneered back. “Is that so? You’re the baby— why don’t you remember that for once?”  
“I would, if you stopped acting like a child, even when it’s only the two of us!”  
They panted heavily, restraining their once vocal irritation with one another to nothing more than a cold, hard, and locked gaze. Tentatively, Gaignun reached out to brush the edge of Jr’s mind. It was guarded with walls he could only break if he put up an honest fight, and now was certainly not the time for that. Instead, he opened his mouth and spoke:

“…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“No, no, you’re right… I’ve been awfully childish…”

Silence stretched out again.

“I’ll…” Gaignun hesitated, unsure if he actually wanted to commit to what he was about to offer. “I’ll talk to someone. I promise.” A light flickered on in Jr’s expression.

“Oh. Good…” His voice was soft and concerned, but this no longer grated at Gaignun’s nerves. It just made him want to tremble and cry as he recalled the dream—or at least the ghost of it.Time had already worn away the details, but the impact remained as forceful as the moment he had flown from his sweat-soaked bed. Forcefully, he choked it back, and put on a smile—

“Run along now,” He demanded playfully. “You have as much work to do as I.” Jr. nodded, some regret still visible in his face, but made for the door.

“There’s tea in the kettle down the hall, if you want some…!” Gaignun called, swallowing the worm of fear still crawling up his throat.

“Thanks!” His voice faded down the hallway with the sound of his footsteps.

With Jr. well out of sight and the door firmly slid shut, Gaignun rose from his desk as fast as he possibly could, shambled his way to the bathroom, and dunked his head into a basin full of cold water, just as he had done hours earlier. It wasn’t elegant, nor professional, or practical, but the privacy of his office had many benefits—this being one of them.

He grabbed a towel from the rack beside the sink, and set to work while he dried his face and hair. The meeting would not be for another fifteen minutes or so, which gave him just enough time to… who was he kidding? He was just going to waste it brooding unless he had some firm paperwork under his fingers. With that decided, he slid open the floating screen of his laptop to scan through his mail.

 

\---

Dreams always had a terrible way of butting in at the worst possible times. Just when you were certain that you’d forgotten all the details of whatever horror you faced the night prior, you would see some tiny little object, or hear a single word, and it would all crash back onto you, piece-by-piece.

Once, Gaignun had suffered a particularly nasty nightmare as a child. A decade had dulled the memory until he could no longer remember what it had been about, not even faintly. He remembered crying though. He had been underneath the table in the far corner of the metallic room he shared with the twins. Apparently, his tears had not woken them, leaving him painfully alone and scared out of his fragile young wits.

Then, there were footsteps. Light and springy—like a cat’s—he heard that padding of bare feet before he saw them standing at the cusp of his precious refuge. By then, his heart had already climbed up his throat, and his tears were beginning to be muffled by the adrenaline that gnawed at his brain to scream out and run.

“Nigredo.”

He had jumped—so forcefully that he had his head on the table’s belly that loomed above him. He flung himself backward and pressed himself against the wall, hoping he might sink into it.

“Ci-Citrine!” For perhaps the only time in his entire life, he was glad to see her. Citrine might be cruel, but she was no monster.

“Nigredo,” She repeated, her voice cold and exasperated, cutting through the night. “Get out from under there. Go back to your bed—it’s a true wonder you didn’t wake those other boys...” _‘And woke me instead.’_

He had blubbered at her words, but somehow nodded and crawled slowly out from beneath the table. Faintly, he remembered her grabbing him by the arms and pulling him back to his feet.

“Don’t you get… bad dreams?” He had asked, as she hauled him up. She had paused—ever so slightly—but paused nonetheless.

“Yes.”  
“…And what do you do?” Citrine was tough. Tougher than him, maybe even Rubedo. She would know how to handle it.

Through fogged eyes, he could see her lips tighten into a thin line of uncertainty and maybe even pain. He suddenly felt bad for her. Like she was being denied of something, and cut apart bit-by-bit until she was just a shelled-out soldier, all empty inside.

She told him to curl up and close his eyes, and that dreams could never _actually_ touch them. Not in this world. He had believed her, and a part of him still believed her now.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t always a viable option. Especially in Gaignun’s new life.

“Nigredo,” Today, the voice belonged to Helmer, and while as hushed as Citrine’s, it was far kinder. “You don’t look so well. I honestly suggest that you should at least consider skipping out on tonight’s—“

“I’m fine.” He assured, giving his best staged-smile. “I can handle this.”

Helmer didn’t seem convinced. “You haven’t been sleeping all this week; it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. Go home. Get some rest. Have your brother and the rest of us handle things today.”

For a brief second, that sounded too beautiful to pass up. But then what would he do? Try to sleep? _Watch a movie?_ “No,” he shook his head and stood up. “I’ll be fine. That’s that.” He started for the door before Helmer’s fatherly disapproval could stop him from making his choice.

“Nigredo—“

“Don’t call me that…” Gaignun responded a bit too snippily.

“—Gaignun. Look, you aren’t alone. You know that. There are people here to help.”

“I know.”

“Then _let_ them.”

“…I can’t.” This was his penitence—for existing. For killing, for denying, and for caring far too much.

With that, the standoff was over. “…The dinner starts at 7:00. It’s a white-tie affair, but I’m sure you already knew that.” Apparently, that was enough for Helmer.

Grateful, he would take it and run. “Yes. Thank you anyway.”

\---

Black-tie dinners were fantastic. Elegant and clean, a tribute to all the finer things in life, yet just casual enough to be fun, or even relaxing. White-tie however, no. White-tie was more often than not a test to his social skills, pushing them to their limits and beyond. It was the ultimate example of ‘playing host,’ of putting on a perfect façade and using every ounce of brain power to maintain it. Naturally, Jr. hated them even more than he did—but the lucky bastard usually got to skip out, on the grounds of being ‘but a little child.’ Resolution firmly in-tact, Gaignun slipped into his coat and gloves, and headed out to face the hungry crowd.

This night in particular truly stretched out before him like infinity.

“You hate this, don’t you?”

“Hm?”

The man standing next to him was dressed just a stiffly as the rest of them, but pulled it off with an ease that sparked a pinch of envy in Gaignun. He was slight and a couple of inches shorter than himself, yet still held a certain air of strength and grace that could knock someone over flat on their back.

“You,” With deft fingers, he began to pour a glass of wine. “Are not enjoying this. Am I wrong?” Finished, he offered the glass to Gaignun.

“No, but…” He accepted the drink, feeling awkward and rude to be standing around, served at his own event. “That’s rather bold of you. You’re making me feel guilty.”

The man smiled—a nice smile—small, but genuine. His hair was almost as red as Jr’s, but a fair bit longer, curling at the base of his neck where it had been slicked and combed into a perfect sheet.

“I had no such intention. You’re a brilliant host, and knowing that you don’t even enjoy it only makes you seem better.”

Gaignun laughed heartily at this—if he felt guilty, it wasn’t without a certain amount of mirth and amusement toward the very person inciting it.

“Malthe,” He said, offering his free hand. “Malthe Caplin.”

Gaignun set down his glass on the table and shook it. “Gaignun Kukai.”

Malthe laughed. “I’m aware.”

In a flash of embarrassment, Gaignun, grabbed his glass back from the table and took a sip. “Sorry. Well, at least I don’t seem egotistical?”

“True! Very true…though I really never thought you did. Just a bit tired and…desperate to please.”

“It’s that obvious?”  
Malthe cast his eyes out over the crowd. People casually chatted among the tables, not so different from how the two of them spoke now. “At the moment, yes. You’re usually quite composed, so any slip is well, painfully obvious.”

“Ah. I see...” Was that a bad thing? He didn’t have the mental bandwidth to figure it out right now.

“Oh, don’t take it personally,” His new companion seemed so sincere—surprisingly so—in his concern. “You’re working hard—it’s only natural you wear out at some point or another.” He gestured to the rest of the room. “A whole month of fundraising events is a huge undertaking, I can only wish you the best of luck.”

“I’ll make my way,” Gaignun shrugged. He was, if he didn’t say so himself, quite good at doing that. “Well then, Mr. Caplin, what brings you here?”

“Oh, pardon me! I run Artificial Life and Sentience Alliance—A.L.S.A.” Gaignun raised his eyebrows. “We work out of Second Miltia for Realian rights and equality in both law and in practice… You may not recall us? That’s fine, of course. We have some wealth, but we’re still a private and fairly small operation.”

Gaignun shook his head. “Oh no, I remember you. I’m not just saying that either—your work is wonderful. My son and I specifically picked your organization to attend this fundraiser—we’re thrilled to have your support.” It still felt so odd to refer to Jr. as his _son,_ of all things, but he hardly had time to ponder that now.

As he spoke, Malthe had given that lovely smile once again. He seemed to blossom at the sound of that praise. “Oh god, now you’re too kind. We’re glad to _give_ our support…”

Their eyes met for a flash, and Gaignun felt a wave of rapid heartbeats overcome him, pouring up from his chest and through to his skin where it manifested itself as a wide smile.

“Would you like another drink, Mr. Caplin…?”

\---

The party went well past midnight.

Even with all the gowns and tuxedos and stiff formalities, the alcohol still flowed like a river from a never-ending fountain, and half the guests left late, more than a bit bubbly and excited from all of its consequences.

Gaignun made a final speech that night, as he always did. It was perfect, as far as he was concerned, wrapping up the night nicely and tying it off with a bow into a successful victory for the Foundation and its supporters. There was certainly another hour of festivities to be had after that, but Gaignun had already left by then, with Malthe Caplin hand-in-hand.

Oh this was probably unprofessional, he thought. If a single word got out of it, they would all be the embarrassment of tabloid headlines for the next year-and-a-half. The sensible side of his mind told him to give it up, but that bit of him was surprisingly small at the moment.

Gaignun admittedly didn’t have much of lovelife. He was too busy, too concerned with others, with the big picture, with Jr, to even _begin_ looking for someone else. So when a person just wandered into his life and strolled right on up to him—it felt like a miracle.

And how could it not be a small miracle? Once safely back in his quarters, the delicate hand-holding escalated, and his hand—both hands—were soon pinned to the wall by Malthe’s ever-so-slightly-smaller form with his breath hot and sweet against his face.

“Does this mean those rumors of an illegitimate son are most certainly untrue?” He whispered, grinning devilishly as he touched the tip of his nose to Gaignun’s.

He chuckled and teased back at him: “You didn’t trust my open declarations of my sexuality?”  
“No, but I do like to make sure…” Then his mouth was pressed against his own, in a glorious confirmation of their words.

The wall didn’t last long, as it rarely did, when a bed was so close at hand. The event outside was certainly wrapping up by now, yet they had no intention of ending it themselves.

It must have been past 4 o’clock by the time they closed their eyes, their foreheads pressed to one another in the tender ache for physical contact that was left in the wake of their love.

Gaignun fell asleep quicker and sounder than he had in months to the soft teasing sound of his companion’s voice:  
“You’re crying… You cry? That’s… that’s really rather cute...”

For once, he liked that.

\---

He was standing in a museum. An art museum—or at the very least some semblance of one. It was odd—with long staircases spiraling in and out, and up and down. Some parts were lit in a sickening white florescence, and some were left in murky shadows that left the viewer wondering how they might see the art they were supposed to be looking at. Or maybe, that was the point of it—maybe that was the art in itself.

There wasn’t any time to ponder it—he had to move. He was looking for someone… Rubedo? Where was he? He was too much a child to be wandering such a place alone. It was disquieting, even threatening at times. He didn’t even want to be alone any longer than he had to in here.

“There you are!” The hunter had been hunted—Nigredo span around. Rubedo had grabbed a hold of his wrist from behind when he hadn’t been paying attention. “I’ve been worried sick…”

Gaignun opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. His vision was shifting, sliding in and out of focus, as if someone was trying to shove their way into his head, and push his own soul out through his ear in the process. He whimpered like a child as he fell like a collapsing building the hard ground, unable to even more his hands to clutch at his head.

“Rubedo!” He shrieked as a fragment of his voice came back. “ _Rubedo!!”_

“Shhhh...”

He opened his eyes. A blonde man was standing over him, arms placidly folded behind his back as a small army of children hang in a forest of ropes behind him.

“Hush, son, like your siblings…”

One of the twisting heads was a bright, brilliant red. He stretched out a hand, towards Rubedo, toward Albedo and Citrine, and all those others…

Something latched onto his foot before his hand could even leave the ground and pulled him away, away, away, into the farthest darkened corners of the sterile white room. On an instinct, he twisted around, kicking whoever it was squarely in the jaw. It wasn’t a hard kick, not at all, yet blood shot into the air as his foot made contact with the form.

“Nigredo!” Rubdeo screamed and choked through the blood that cascaded from his nose and throat, running down his face and to the ground, dirtying it with a brilliant shade of red to match his brilliant hair. “Ni…gredo…!”

Gaignun could not register it. He sat in a daze, unable to move, both out of horror at his actions, and for fear of angering the owner of the hand that now sat quietly, painfully, in his own chest.

“Yuriev.” He muttered. He didn’t need to look to know his father was smiling cruelly as he twisted his fist around his heart. “Yuriev… _Yuriev--!”_

“—Gaignun!”

He sputtered out a gasp as his eyes flew open. Someone had a hold on his outstretched hand—like in his dream—no… it was Malthe. Malthe. That man he had left with last night.

“…It’s okay. It’s okay now. I’m here…” He curled his other hand around Gaignun’s palm, gently squeezing it and rubbing his palm. His labored breathing did not stop. He couldn’t even bear to look at Malthe right now, not until every trace of that dream was eliminated from his mind. He was dying to drown his head under a current of icy water, but his pride—his image of calm and poise—would not allow him to make such a fool of himself in front of this man. Malthe continued to hold his trembling hand and stroke his sweat-drenched hair with the patience of a lifelong partner, not the sudden participant of a one-night-stand that he in truth was.

Once his breathing had finally calmed, it occurred to him with sickening clarity what had to do. Gaignun turned from his back to face Malthe head-on:

“…I need you to leave. Please leave.” He whispered.

“…Wh-what?”

“Leave… I’m asking you to leave me.”

The look in Malthe’s eyes was not one of anger, nor even hurt—at least not prominently. It was more the face of confusion and terror, of uncertainty and harsh disappointment. “I’m not going to hurt you, Gaignun… I want to help.”  
Gaignun swallowed back an urge to cry that swelled in the back of his head. ‘I’ll hurt _you_ ,” He explained. “I was made for that purpose. I’ll hurt you in my sleep, day or night, awake or not. It’s what I was made for.” He clenched his right hand, concealing the numbers it displayed, and squeezing it tight until its meaning disappeared from his mind.

“…I don’t understand.” His eyes were becoming harder and harder to look at. Gaignun shifted back.

“You’re a Realian,” Gaignun said slowly. “I was also… ‘created,’ if you will. In a different way and for a different purpose, but the point still stands.”

“A Salvator…?” Gaignun nodded. “…That doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

Gaignun smiled faintly. “Thank you. Nor do your own origins matter to me. But… my existence as a weapon… that does. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m so sorry...”

He had already climbed out from the bed and was shuffling back into his undergarments and clothes. “It’s fine,” His voice was cracking as he spoke. “I understand…”

“Malthe…”

After he had loosely buttoned his shirt back on and taken his coat from the chair, he turned to the bed and walked over to where Gaignun sat half-upright with his eyes fixed on Malthe. With one knee on the mattress, he bent over and kissed his forehead all the way down to his lips. Their tongues lightly brushed together a moment, before Malthe pulled away.

“Please, take care of yourself.” Gaignun called.

He chuckled and gave that marvelous smile one more time before he turned away. “I should be the one saying that to you.” And then he left.

Gaignun stared blankly at the exit for a minute, then turned away, and buried his head into the pillow.

\---

He awoke late the next morning, stiff and sore from the evening, and his face red and puffed from dried tears. Apparently, he had slept through his alarm. Still, tt wasn’t his second, or third back-up alarms that woke him:

_“Hey. Gaignun.”_

_“Jr?”_ He hurriedly struggled to conceal his grogginess, but quick;y gave up. _“Do you need something?”_ It was rare that he contact Gaignun first, especially considering what a strain it was on him. Telepathy was Gaignun’s talent—not his.

 _“Nothing, I just…”_ If someone could hum in their thoughts, Jr. would have been doing just that. _“I felt some things from you last night. Uneasiness or something… Are you okay? Do you need anything?”_

Gaignun hesitated. He was hardly ready to spill everything from last night onto his brother, although courtesy of their unseen link, he probably already had an inkling of what had occurred. _“No,”_ he finally settled _“I’ll be fine… Just the same as always.”_

 _“Mmmhmm_.” Jr. seemed utterly unconvinced that it was the whole story, and while he was right, Gaignun had certainly not been lying, per se. _“I’m gonna make you some chamomile tonight, okay? Sakura always used to tell me that it helps with sleeping. I’ve never actually tried it, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.”_

_“That would be… nice. That would be really nice, Jr.”_

Pleasure radiated from the other sibling. _“Awesome. Oh, and… maybe we could talk a little?”_ His words blanched like a frightened face. “ _Not about anything in particular!”_ He quickly corrected. _“You don’t need to tell me anything, but maybe we should just catch up? Properly? It may help with, you know…”_

A fragment of his nightmares gnawed at the back his mind—reminding him of their contents, of who he had slain again and again, night after night, in those terrible dreams, and he froze. The idea of an inescapable destiny suddenly seemed all-too-real, like he might just inadvertently murder his brother in the midst of what should be a tender conversation, and everything he worked for would then be for naught, everything he cared about would be gone…

 _“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”_  He cut his train of thought short right there. They were silly things to even consider. Silly and awful, and representative of everything he had chosen to deny. _“11:00—the dining room, back at our house? You can make your tea there…”_

 _“Sounds good to me!”_ Jr. chirped, and then more somber: “ _Have a good day, you hear? Stay safe. I can’t have my baby brother getting into any trouble, right?”_

 _“I should be saying that to you.”_ Gaignun flinched. That phrase dragged up an image of last evening, of the coldness he had given in the face of such kindness, all out of near-irrational fear and self-loathing…

 _“Gaignun.”_ Jr’s voice shook him from the darkness. “ _Stop. You’re beating yourself up over nothing. You do what’s best for you, yeah? Even if it hurts sometimes.”_

 _“Yes…”_ Gaignun had now slipped out from the covers and made his stumbling way to the bathroom vanity. He turned the sink on and let it run, splashing his face with the cold water, but not submerging it. He closed his eyes, and blocked out the pain, just as Citrine had taught him years ago. _“Even if it hurts.”_


End file.
